


Better a Battle

by ifinkufreaky



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, F/M, Fuckery, Hate Sex, Insults, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, Spanking, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, also, why is it that the more of an asshole he is the more i want him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: OC is a Valkyrie, working with Mad Sweeney on a mission for Mr. Wednesday set in some unspecified time before the events of AG (maybe around the 1980s?). Influenced by the theory going around that Sweeney gets so confrontational with Shadow because he himself was once Wednesday’s “right-hand man.”Stuck alone with Sweeney and with nothing better to do, she picks a fight that turns into a whole lot more. Mind the tags; there's nothing soft or romantic about the way the end up in bed together.





	Better a Battle

**Author's Note:**

> for more information on the changes and iterations that the Valkyries have gone through over the centuries, see http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/valkyrie.shtml
> 
> Most important to this story is that their oldest association is with ravens, as corpse-goddesses picking over the battlefield. And that only recently were they turned into warriors, as a Christian romanticization for men to prove their [sexual] prowess over.

“We should make a break for it,” I say, peering out the window of our dingy little safe house at the rain-soaked streets.

“We should stay put,” Sweeney replies, his growling Irish lilt carrying an irritatingly final tone. Like a father who knows what’s best. “Few more days, at least.” He’s lounging; made himself real comfortable on the old couch, feet up, ankles crossed, boots still on. A newspaper in hand that I’m sure he doesn’t give a shit about actually reading.

I whirl away from the window, taking the opportunity to loom over him for once. “I don’t trust this place. It’s a risk staying even as long as we have. We should just get to the rendezvous already.”

Sweeney shakes his head, lips parted in something close to a snarl as he reads my stance. “I know you’re thirsty for battle, buzzard, but there’s nowhere better to be than here. Grimnir says lay low fer a while, then we lay low. Could put everything in jeopardy if we head up there before he says it’s safe.”

I cross my arms to hide the frustration in my fists. “You think you’re the one to lecture _me_ on loyalty to the Allfather?”

“Well I’m the one he’s been sending his damn birds to talk to, ain’t I?” Sweeney spits back, unable to keep a smug look off his face. “That means he wants me in charge. Seems like you aren’t understanding the message, if you think he wouldn’t have our heads for showin’ up to the rendezvous without his say-so.”

“Good to hear you’re still scared of him.” He’s got me on the logic, so all I can do is deflect.

Sweeney’s eyes gleam for a moment; he hates being called a coward in any form. But practicality wins out. This time. “Be crazy not to.”

I nod, and take a half step away. “Crazy.” I swivel back, throwing my next lines out over my shoulder as casually as I can. “You know, I’ve been wondering why they call you ‘Mad’ Sweeney. You seem pretty rational to me. When you aren’t drunk.”

Sweeney growls. “Keep up the sass and you’ll find out.”

I turn toward the kitchen. He lifts his newspaper with a noisy flourish. I’m not really sure why I’m trying to pick a fight with him now. Just stir-crazy, I guess. The thought of spending several more _days_ with Wednesday’s #1 enforcer, getting way too intimate in this shitty little bolt-hole, is making my skin crawl.

Better a battle, than the long slow suffering of waiting. Something about Sweeney is just begging to get tested.

* * *

What does the Allfather see in this guy, anyway? Haven’t the Valkyries served him faithfully through the centuries? I should be the one in charge. Instead, Sweeney’s treating me like his bitch: keeping me in the dark about the mission, claiming the only bed in the safe house, always taking the good seat in front of the TV while we sit on our asses waiting for instructions. And now, sending me out for groceries.

I come back with Lucky Charms. I pour myself a giant bowl and position the box where he has to stare at the silly little leprechaun prancing in the picture.

Sweeney’s boots stomp on the cheap tile floor as I hear him come up behind me. He swipes the box off the table and looms real close while he inspects it over my head.

I wait to jump on his complaint. But Sweeney just shoves his grubby hand right in, then flops into the other kitchen chair and start chomping loudly on the little marshmallows. “Not a very good likeness. But they taste fuckin’ great.”

“I don’t know, I can see the resemblance.” I look at the shrimpy little redhead printed on the box. “They keep drawing you like that, you think you’ll start getting shorter?”

He chomps his next mouthful loudly, and starts speaking around it before bothering to swallow. “They made you a cartoon, too, ya know.”

“Yeah, a superhero! I might get blonder—” I look down “—and I think my tits are getting bigger. Overall, not a bad deal.” I lift my chin. “They name their war machines after me too. They have not forgotten what my sisters and I are about.”

“Well bully for you, you’re still a vulture. Picking over their dead.”

“Raven.” I correct.

“Same thing, buzzard.” Sweeney pushes up out of his chair with a squealing sound against the tile and heads for the fridge. He swigs the milk straight out of the carton, mixing it with the cereal already in his mouth in a truly disgusting display. There’s a leer in his eye after he swallows. “You’re right, though. If your tits get any bigger, you might be at risk o’ falling over. I’m sure Wednesday’s just loving what’s happening to his girls, in that department.”

When he walks out, he’s whistling “Ride of the Valkyries.”

 

* * *

That night I decide that it’s my turn to sleep on the bed. The couch is lumpy and smells like it was rescued from an alley at the end of a rainy day.

If I thought that being already dressed-down for bed and tucked between the sheets would be enough to stake my claim, I was wrong. Sweeney enters the room and flips the light back on, pulls his shirt off over his head before he even notices I’m in there.

My mouth goes a little dry at the sight of his heavily-muscled chest. His taste in clothing definitely hides the impressiveness of his physique. He grins when he spots me already in the bed. “Didn’t think ya thought of me this way, buzzard. But I guess goin’ a few rounds between the sheets is a decent way to make the time go by faster.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What? No. I just want a decent night’s sleep. My turn to use the bed tonight.”

Sweeney shakes his head. When he crosses his arms I try to ignore he way his pectoral muscles pop. “Nah, that’s not how this is going to work. I don’t fit on the couch.”

That’s probably true, at his height, but I’m not backing down. “I’m sure you’ll work something out.”

“I’m sure I will.” He unbuttons his trousers and I turn my head away just before he lets them drop. The overhead light cuts out, then I feel him lift the bedsheet. Before I can react he shoves his legs in next to mine, skin sliding against skin.

“Get out!” I screech, pushing my knees against his hairy legs and trying not to grope his glorious chest as I shove at him.

“I ain’t movin’.” He shoulders me away, then crosses his arms behind his head and exaggerates a sigh of relaxation. “If ye aren’t gonna start touching me nicer than that, then roll over and give me a little more room.”

I make sure he can hear me sniff at the very idea. I’m also not giving him the satisfaction of making myself small. I give him my back, but don’t slide away. I’m acutely aware that my thin t-shirt, and the cotton panties on my ass, are the only barriers between our bodies now, but I refuse to let him feel me shrink away from him.

He only tries once. We’ve laid there long enough, listening to each other breath, to be half-asleep but unfortunately not unconscious. I roll a little away from him, seeking a more comfortable position, and his body follows, softly spooning mine. I'll admit to a slight thrill as his hand slides over my back, almost accidental. “You’re not wearin’ a bra,” he rumbles.

I stiffen. Is that really his move?

“Let me feel those big Valkyrie boobies, I bet they’re glorious under there.”

That gets me sitting up, halfway off the bed. “Seriously?!”

I can just make out Sweeney’s face in the dim night. He’s still mocking me. “’Course not, buzzard. I mean, I would wager they’re glorious, but if I were tryin’ to seduce ye that would not be the way I’d go about it. Just trying to get you out o’ the damned bed.” He waits a beat, looking pointedly at the way I haven’t fully retreated. “Unless the idea’s working for ye?”

“Fuck off,” I say.

And I lay back down right next to him.

I slap his hand when it starts creeping over my shoulder, and the fucker finally decides just to go to sleep.

 

* * *

The last straw comes just about how I should have expected it. I’m sitting on the couch, watching some horrid domestic sitcom with a laugh track that sands off another little piece of my soul with every repeat. Suddenly Sweeney is filling the doorway, flushed and spoiling for a fight. “That the last beer in yer hand there?”

One look at his face, and I’m on my feet. Finally. “Is it?” I ask, voice dripping saccharine and not fooling anyone. I stare right into his eyes and wrap my lips around the bottle, tipping it back for a good, long drink. I sigh loudly when I’m done. “What are you gonna do about it, big man?”

Sweeney steps closer, makes an exasperated gesture with his hand. "I’ll tell you what, brat, I’m this close to taking you over my knee."

I don’t flinch as he comes up on me, though my every nerve is singing now. I need to battle. We both do. I set the bottle down on the table behind me. “Why don’t you just try it.”

I see the joy of violence burst behind his eyes as his arms close in around me. I slip his grip and strike him hard across the chest. He whirls with an appreciative respect behind the aggression in his face as he realizes I’m going to be a match for him. We trade licks until we’re both panting and sure to come up bruised. I’m not sure who starts grinning first, but anyone that saw us smiling like maniacs while trying to bash in each other’s skulls wouldn’t think that Sweeney was the only mad one here.

I knock him over an endtable, shattering two of its legs, and ride Sweeney’s body as it crashes down to the floor. His eyes look a little dazed as he gazes up at me, like maybe he got the wind knocked out of him. “Say Uncle,” I taunt, squeezing his torso between my knees.

The feel of the solid slab of him beneath my thighs sends an unexpected thrill of arousal through my core. This time I don’t mind it, now that Sweeney is finally giving me what I want. The singing in my blood starts to change, and I shift my hips, chasing the feeling. I try not to undulate so much as to let on, but the gleam that enters Sweeney’s eye says that he’s caught me. “You like riding me, love? This how a buzzard gets her rocks off these days?”

I shake my head, letting my hair spill out in a golden wave as I lean over him. “If only,” I taunt. “You know the Valkyries only take the best men off the battlefield.”

Something in my words cuts him deep, but he hides it in a flash under a redoubling of aggression. He rears up and wraps his fist around my hair, using it to guide my body sharply toward the floor as he flips us both over. I try to break his hold, but his sheer fucking size gets the advantage on the ground. After only a bit more of a tussle, his body weight is pressing my back into the cheap carpet.

He tugs at my scalp, snarling his dominance into my face. “You’re bested, sweetheart. Now _you_ say it.”

I could say something snappy; I could hit him somewhere sensitive and let the match continue. But as our grapple continued, my cunt never stopped throbbing. As far as that aspect of my nature is concerned, this man has proven his prowess in combat, and now I find that I want something more from him than just a knock-down, drag-out fight. I stare up into his ferocious eyes, and lift my chin to press a searing kiss to his lips.

I feel him smile against my mouth. Then he parts his teeth and his tongue invades, his eagerness pushing my head back to the floor as his hips curl into mine. I feel his hard and ready length and groan knowing all of this was doing it for him as much as it was doing it for me.

I still don’t make it easy for him. A Valkyrie’s submission retains a challenge. We scramble at each other’s clothes like we’re competing to get the other one stripped while keeping as much on ourselves as possible. He gets the button open on my jeans, but he gets no further when I bite his neck hard enough that he tries to fling me off of him on reflex.

“Brat,” he calls me again. “I still oughta give you that spanking.”

I make a scoffing sound, but it comes out half-hearted; my back arches at the very idea.

His eyebrows jump. “You know you want it.”

“Just try it,” I growl again. And so he forces me up to the couch with his fingers clutching close to my scalp, throws me over his knee just as promised.

“Irritating little bitch.” His open hand cracks against my backside. “Been doin’ nothing but nipping at me since we got here. Is this what you wanted?” His hand flies over the breadth of my ass in a succession of wallops, but neither of us are satisfied with the way my jeans dull the impact. His fingers scrape my flesh as he tears my clothing down to my knees.

Like a cool breeze, his fingers run up my exposed skin, making me sigh at the contrast before he strikes hard and fast, leaving a sting that sucks the air from my lungs with a hiss.

There’s nothing quite like the deep, mind-numbing feeling of being forced into submission. As Sweeney’s repeated blows bring the blooming pain to crescendo, I lose touch with anything less immediate than this moment, the sensations of my body, of my will versus his. I don’t want him to stop until he makes me sob.

I feel the rest of my pride let go like some constriction unfastening. I whimper and try to pull away from him, and yet I relish the way he holds me down and makes me take just a little bit more.

“Had enough, battle angel?” He’s still mocking me, but his tone is different. Drawing nearer rather than pushing me away. His palm slides slow over my burning flesh, making me sigh at the sweet relief. “Ready to take what’s comin’ to ye next?”

His fingers part my cheeks, slip inside my cunt so easily I’m almost embarrassed.

“Oh, you’re ready,” he chuckles darkly, giving me a few rough thrusts that bury two of his fingers to the knuckles.  I moan to encourage him and he keeps going, fucking me with his fingers as I arc up into him. “Wanton thing. But I’m not waiting any longer.”

He pushes my face into the couch, bracing me to stay there as he slides his body out from under mine.

“Up,” he coaxes at my hips, while holding my head down, until he’s got me standing on shaky legs and bent over the side of the couch. “Such a beautiful sight,” he murmurs, “your ass all red and purple, cunt just _dripping_ for me.”

His words are slow but his body isn’t, cock already pressing against my opening, penetrating deeply almost before I realize it’s happening. He bottoms out with a throaty groan, then all I can do is hold on to the cushions against the impact as Sweeney fucks into me as fast and wild as he just fought me, as hard as he spanked me and as shuddering deep as our contempt for each other had bloomed. I press back against him when I can, chasing my own pleasure, trying to keep him at the angle that makes my blood sing and my whole spine tingle.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses, that and worse; rough words in his own tongue spill from his mouth as he bends over my back, gathers my hips and redoubles his efforts as he pounds into me. Now he’s hitting me in a place that sends me spiraling; soon I go wailing over the edge of it, with a rushing in my ears and a grind to my teeth as I come harder than I have in at least a century.

Sweeney’s own curses take on a desperate edge. His body stutters and then smothers me.

“Fuck,” he marvels into the back of my neck. “So that’s what Valhalla feels like?”

 

* * *

The hunger that we awoke that night is not easily satisfied. Sweeney and I use each other hard, for the rest of the week, reduced to some kind of base animal need to fuck and fight and sleep and fuck again. I try to get out of the bed; Sweeney growls and pulls my panties down, stuffing himself inside me before I can even finish brushing my teeth. I find every excuse to chastise and berate him: no more boots on the couch, no more ‘buzzard,’ how about you fix that pissy tone, it’s your turn to go out for more food. Just to rile him up until I’m pinned against the wall, or bent in half over a new piece of furniture. I wake up to find him playing with my ‘boobies;’ I refuse to let him sleep until I can ride his cock one more time, squeezing every last ounce of the magic fucking leprechaun juice from body until maybe, just _maybe_ , he might end up too depleted to run his fucking mouth anymore.

Finally we wake one morning to the sound of two ravens cackling wildly at us through an open window, tangled in the sheets, skin sticking together.

“Yes, we’ll fucking shower first,” Sweeney shouts back at them.


End file.
